


Estrangement

by secrtdoor



Series: Estrangement Trilogy [1]
Category: Arctic Monkeys, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-02 04:36:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8651395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secrtdoor/pseuds/secrtdoor
Summary: No one has heard of Arctic Monkeys since their “Suck It And See” concert tour. Four years later Alex Turner is back to London, working in a small bookstore and trying to forget about the past.





	1. Chapter 1

Mornings were most suitable for procrastinating. The quiet atmosphere made him blink twice as often, and the lack of customers in the early hours created a wonderful foundation for yawning, daydreaming and, obviously, napping.

Opened at nine o'clock, the little shop, stuck between a café with affordable prices, overflown by students from the college nearby around lunchtime, and a travel agency on the edge of bankruptcy, seemed to be slowly withering away. But it was just a short bus ride away from his flat, and the relationship with his employer was equally satisfying for them both.

The owner, a literature enthusiast in her late fifties, a mother of two and grandmother of three, had very simple requirements to her applicants. Tired of young kids who sought easy money and as little physical involvement as possible, she hired Alex because he was, in fact, an adult, and promised to sell at least three books a day. He increased the amount of daily sales to a dozen in under a couple months, which gained him a small raise, his own pair of keys, and complete lack of supervision.

Suffering from a sleeping disorder and a terribly intensified sense of responsibility, he struggled to get to the bookstore right on time despite only getting three, at best, four, hours of rest. The bookstore, with dusty shelves, dimmed windows and an old bell, hanging above the entrance, made him think of living in a romantic comedy of sorts, a lonely weirdo, waiting for his soulmate. But, truth be told, he liked it that way. Here and now, he was just Alex, a guy from North, an avid reader who knew how to play a few instruments and didn’t have a university degree nor any particularly useful skills.

The spotlight shifted eventually from his disappearance to some better news, and the world let go. People forgot much quicker and easier than they thought, and, as soon as he became merely an echo of past success, Alex began to enjoy the freedom of it. The ability to catch a train without being photographed, asked for an autograph or simply stared at. The variety of choices that were suddenly laid out before him. The simplicity of human life.

It’s funny that instead of going to another country, seeing all the exotic, bizarre places the world could offer, Alex went home instead. He was looking for a peace of mind, not an adventure, for there were more than enough of them in the past.

It took a while to accept the inevitable - he wasn’t fit for the job anymore. The void that consumed his mind took away not only the ability to create, but the very desire to do so. And when the last concert of tour ended and the final chord was played, instead of certainty of going back to work after a brief break, all Alex felt was dread. A position that he’s never been in before, absolute lack of ideas, sheer emptiness.

He tried to fight it, and as the pile of discarded pieces of paper grew bigger, he came closer to the realization that, maybe, it wasn’t just an ordinary writer’s block. Unable to overcome it, he turned to his friends, but they didn’t understand. Occupied by their own lives, they couldn’t relate to the issue and, of course, Alex had to just laugh it off. But the problem didn’t go away.

He sighed and opened a box of new books that Julie dropped yesterday, right when he was about to close up. The first reaction was sneezing, then waiting for the cloud of dust to settle, and looking inside, at last. A few rare ones, beautiful first printed editions, but mostly just old books, some with handwritten notes, most with ragged covers and in pretty bad shape, overall. Alex knew that bigger half of them were going to spend their remaining days in the bookstore, but some were lucky enough to find a gentle owner who’d appreciate their value.

At nights, unable to switch his mind off, instead of staring into darkness he either read or wrote short stories, mostly full of clichés and pompous metaphors, that ended up in the trash bin around four o'clock in the morning, his usual bedtime these days. A creative crisis that outlasted the lengthiest of his romantic relationships. Sometimes he wondered if in a parallel universe this never happened and he kept on recording, touring, living as usual. However, hoping that it wasn’t the worst one. Maybe, somewhere in between.

He dreamt of falling and woke up with a racing heart, soaking wet, covered in sweat and sticky, dark fear. Most of the nights it was alright, just a jump a few hours ahead, the most common form of time travel. But once or twice a month… He tried not to think about it. The horror of failure, a bottomless pit of despair, the depression that followed.

People were always asking questions about where did the frontman of Arctic Monkeys go? And, of course, his personal favourite - when was the next album going to be released? Four years had passed and he still didn’t know the answer, with “never” jumping on the tip of his tongue, eager to break out. A millionaire who worked in a bookstore on one of the least memorable little streets in Mayfair. A rockstar who rented a tiny flat, filled it with books and vinyls, and preferred public transport to driving a car. A celebrity who was now remembered by playing his last live concert in 2012. Who was he indeed?

Alex put on his coat and went outside to throw out the trash. A reflection of his turned around, pale, with dark circles under its’ eyes, sleep-deprived, thin, with messy waves of hair falling on the forehead, and raised the eyebrow. As if it wondered if he was going to stand there or all day. He flinched and the illusion disappeared. On the street that was slowly getting ready for another gloomy, uneventful Tuesday, Alex was on his own.


	2. Chapter 2

"Note to self: it's not wise making a snack that involves electronic devices after catching less than three hours of sleep for five nights in a row; putting out a fire at 3 a.m. isn't quite as fun as it might sound."

He deliberately picked a small flat because it was supposed to point out that his loneliness was a choice, not some sort of tragedy. He rented an empty space with bare walls and floors, a tiny kitchen and a bathroom with rusty faucets, angrily spitting out water of temperature that depended on their current mood. With a couple of bags of clothing, a mattress, covered in polkadot sheets, takeaway food and no phone or internet connection, Alex managed to live for three months.

The uncovered nakedness had to be a reminder that this accommodation was temporary but, after a while, he realised that hoping to come back to his old ways and carry on as if nothing changed wasn't an option. With as much in common between himself and his new, soon to be permanent, residence, as inner emptiness, Alex made a decision to stay and see where it was going to take him.

Only almost half a year later did he apply for the job at Julie's bookstore. There was an unexplainable desire to renovate the flat with his own hands, scrubbing off old wallpapers, painting the walls, carefully picking furniture, filling the shelves with vinyls, replacing the old with the new, piece by piece. Physical work felt cleansing after a long period of apathy and, despite the apparent loss of his lyrical and musical talents, Alex found relief in routine activities, striving towards a perfect home.

He closed eyes and pressed the tips of his fingers to the tired eyelids, itchy, denying him concentration. The books from the box were still there, calling out to his guilt, demanding to be sorted out and put onto the showcase immediately. He sighed, wiped a few tears that completely gave away his sleep disorder, and went to the backroom to grab a ladder.

It was full of things that, under a certain light, in a fairly kind state of mind, could be called "garbage". The size of a closet, it left just enough empty space to breath once every thirty seconds and balance on the edge of an imminent panic attack, caused by reawakened claustrophobia. Even Julie, the person who pretty much grew up in this shop, tried not to go there too often.

Alex put the ladder right next to the door, easy to fetch without actually stepping inside. Old and flimsy, it always made horrendous sounds when climbed onto, and didn't feel like a safe way to reach the highest shelves, not at all. Standing on top of it, on the brink of falling, he almost put a heavy volume into a gap, cleared in advance, when his boss decided to pay her best and only employee a visit.

"Alex? It's me!"

The book fell down with a loud and heavy thud, and his grip on the ladder tightened instinctively, waiting for the only obstacle between him and the floor to stop swaying.

"Are you okay there?"

"I'm perfectly fine, thank you."

"Did something fall down?"

"A book."

"Really? Sounded like an elephant."

"It was... a big book."

"Do you need help?"

"No. Do you?"

"I was just dropping a few books. My friend's grandmother wanted to give them to charity, but I thought that we're not any different, considering the sales."

Feeling the steadiness beneath his feet was reassuring enough to make a few steps and properly greet his employer. She looked tired, with a messy bun, grey streaks in her hair slowly winning the war against the original dark brown. But Julie knew how to smile and not to ask unnecessary questions, and that's why Alex was so fond of her. He coughed, drawing her attention, and leaned on one of the bookcases that didn't look like it was about to fall apart.

"Oh, hello. Congratulations on the safe descend. Anyway, just take a look at these, will you? I'm already late for lunch."

"Yes, of course."

"You look a bit... disoriented. Sure you don't need my help?"

"No, don't worry. Nothing I couldn't deal with on my own."

"Okay then. I'll see you later."

The door closed and he finally exhaled. Out of a neatly tied pile of books Alex randomly picked one, put the kettle on, sat in a fancy leather armchair, similar to the one he had at home, and opened what looked like a romance novel.

In the past he had a few loves, but they all got wasted away. He had friends, but he left them voluntarily, and his decision wasn't forced by anyone. It became plain that being around them like a sad ghost, spreading boredom and melancholy, was getting tiring for both sides.

Alex tried, he really tried to make things work. But when alcoholism and drug addiction became a more probable outcome of his actions than writing at least one decent song, he left and gave a promise to never look back. He didn't want to share his burden with anyone else, but himself.

He used to be able to fall asleep anywhere, in any position, surrounded by chatter and music, and see colourful dreams. But now, in a comfortable bed, drowning in pillows, he stared at the ceiling and, when finally falling into the oblivion, saw nothing but darkness. Or something worse than that, haunting, cold, with long fingers, breathing behind his back. 

Not everything was done yet. Alex could've kept on fighting, scratching the wall from the inside, hurting, bleeding to climb out. When did he stop struggling to do what he loved?

The bell rang melodically, and he turned back to face the customer, but it was just Julie again.

"Forgot my keys. Went to the car and realised that something was missing. Did that ever happen to you?"

"More often than I would like to admit."

"Are you making tea?"

"I was going to."

"Do you mind if I join? I don't mean to bother you, but it's a lunch with my husband's parents, and even after thirty years of marriage they still manage to dislike me. I can always say that there was a lot of work in the shop."

"A lot of work? Here?"

"Unrealistic?"

"Completely. I'll find you a spare cup."

"You're a life saver, Alex, I swear to God."

"Oh, I know."

The kettle boiled, clouds of steam rising from it. It was going to be a long day, for sure.


	3. Chapter 3

Having a conversation with Julie was easier than with most of the people; all he had to do was listen, and Alex just happened to be a good listener, struggling with words and sentences in his own head.

She liked talking, as any person with a fairly complicated life. The bookstore wasn’t her main business; considering the profits, she couldn’t have raised three children solely based on it. Part legacy, part something Julie just couldn’t force herself to give up on, it was the last on the list of her successful ventures. A few restaurants, a chain of gyms, a hair salon and a few small investments here and there - that’s how his boss really made money.

“Happily divorced” - that’s how she called herself, with a genuine laughter and, sometimes, a wink. Easy-going, Julie didn’t hold grudges and maintained good relationships with both of her ex-husbands, not for the sake of already grown children, but because they split on fair terms, no hard feelings involved.

Right now she was sitting on the tip of an old chair, with her legs stretched out, finishing her tea and talking about her grandson’s first birthday. While Alex’s right hand was drawing circles on the surface of the counter mindlessly, and his left one was holding a cup, his eyes were focused on Julie, acknowledging her problems.

“So what would you do in this situation?”

It was a tricky question, aimed to catch him on being distracted, not paying enough attention.

“Well, Julie, I’m not that sure about Claire, to be honest. If she is still jealous of Susan for stealing her boyfriend and now having a child from him, even though she’s happily married, there could be certain tension involved. But, maybe, it’s nothing to worry about, since they’re both adults.”

“How do you keep on doing it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I know you don’t give a shit about my family and, honest to God, it’s not listed as one of your duties. But you always give the right answers. How?”

“I do listen to you, Julie. Besides, my life isn’t half as interesting as yours.”

“That’s a cheap compliment, Turner, but I’ll take it. I’m gonna figure out your secret, sooner or later.”

“There’s no secret in here, Julie.”

“It feels like you’re staring right into my soul and yet somewhere beyond, through me and the windows.”

“Maybe, just maybe, I’m simply a good listener.”

“You almost drilled a hole in the counter with your finger, honey. And next time we’ll talk about grandma Dorothy’s backaches.”

“Cannot wait for that day to arrive, Julie. You know where to find me.”

She looked at Alex one more time, grabbed the keys and went out. His eyes followed her to the car, then lost focus, and he rubbed them for a few seconds, but when his ability to concentrate came back Julie was already gone.

He went to wash the cups, wiped them and his hands with a paper towel, and realised that any of his remaining desire to work had vanished completely. At this hour, if there was no urgent task to complete, Alex usually sat close to the entrance, hidden in the shadows, reading a book and trying not to let his thoughts drift away from the plot.

Past had a firm grip and it didn’t want to let go. He bought the flat a few days after the last drop of paint dried up, and moved into it completely, cutting off the last threads that followed him all the way from California. The change in weather, the humidity that crept under his clothes, unforgiving, all-knowing, the melody of rain in the morning made him finally feel like home. And the evidence of his brief stay on the other side of the world was quickly washed away by the relentless British autumn.

But the memories always resurfaced. The faces of people, the places he visited, the things he used to care about, all gone now. Future, destroyed by his hand, never quite as steady, before nor after, shattered into pieces for good. Separation.

Alex read a poem for the fifth time, swore quietly and put the open book on his face, resting his head on the back of the armchair. Tuesdays were always so slow, with time, frozen in amber, and the clock ticking away seconds, minutes, hours so lazily. The paper, crumbling in contact with his skin, smelt like old fabrics, dingy ink and dilapidated wood, and it felt like sinking into a bed of moss and leaves.

It was too hot back in Los Angeles, and his house was too big, too spacious, too different from where Alex truly wanted to be. And he was never alone. Enjoying life has never been less appealing than during that particular period of time. Distractions ceased to distract and entertainment was no longer entertaining, and socializing was nothing but a duty. A duty to whom? He couldn’t have told for sure. To the man he used to be, but wasn’t anymore.

The book slipped down his neck and chest , and landed on his stomach. The first drops of rain fell on the ground outside, and the sky got cut in half by thunder. Now, more than ever, he was home.


	4. Chapter 4

Cornered in a bubble of dizziness, frustrated, thrivelessly holding it back from expanding, evolving, turning into a cold. The slight fever could've easily explained all the symptoms that he decided to ignore until the final defences of his immune system fell down, bursting into a headache, a sore throat and the numb heaviness of limbs. 

His working day was slowly crawling towards the end, put on its knees by a particularly annoying rain, half-invisible, yet able to permeate everywhere in a matter of seconds. With a couple of sales checked out of his to-do list, all Alex wanted was to get home, take a long shower, empty his reserves of medicine and watch TV, wrapped in a couple of blankets. 

"Good evening, young man. I brought you the novel you were asking about. And a few magazines, too. This job gets awfully boring sometimes, doesn't it?"

He stood up, watching the room spin around him, leaned on the chair, took a deep breath and even successfully managed to smile.

"Good evening, Mrs. Stewart. How are you?"

His eyes hurt from the light, standing still seemed almost impossible, and he had to pay at least some attention to the old lady, who used to work there too, many years ago.

"Let me take a closer look at you, Alexander. Oh, darling, are you unwell? I should've called in advance. I've some wonderful tea back at home, it'd cure you in no time."

"I appreciate your concerns, Mrs. Stewart, but I have plenty of tea."

She frowned, water from her umbrella dripping on the wooden floors, and gazed up at him.

"But I'm sure it's not the right sort! No, no, I definitely should go back and bring it for you. It's just a few blocks away, and if I leave now, I'm sure..."

Shortly after getting employed, Alex had the very first encounter with Agatha Stewart, a woman who, apparently, came to make sure that the bookstore was in good hands. One of the closest friends of Julie's deceased father, she held the position for almost forty years until it became too hard due to age and all the issues that came with it. Although, she still insisted on visiting the place ever so often to ensure that his dear Michael's legacy wasn't neglected.

"Mrs. Stewart, let's be reasonable. The weather is terrible, and you can always bring me the tea tomorrow. Please, I wouldn't want to risk your health."

For an incredibly long moment Agatha was considering his proposition that, as Alex hoped, sounded reassuring enough, considering his physical state.

"Alright. But I wish there was a nice young girl waiting for you at home, who could take proper care of you."

"I can take care of myself, Mrs. Stewart."

It sounded colder than Alex intended, but there were bells tolling inside his head, and the fever tried to break out in sweat, hot and cold simultaneously, nausea and constant sneezing. Just a few hours ago he felt relatively fine, but now the illness went completely off the rails, escalating rapidly.

"Ahem, yes, I don't doubt that, young man."

He felt guilty for being rude towards Agatha who, obviously, only meant well. The awkward silence, hanging between them, was nothing but a proof of his mistake.

"I'll close up a bit earlier, probably. Thank you for bringing the book and... everything. Sorry if my reply was too harsh. The cold is making me a bit irritable, that's all."

"Oh, don't worry, I've barely even noticed. I'll come by tomorrow. Get better, Alexander."

She walked out in the pouring rain, so small under her flower-patterned umbrella, carefully stepping around the puddles that slowly turned into lakes. Alex knew that the last fifty minutes were going to feel like a pocket eternity, and the bus ride was doomed to exhaust him completely. He gathered all remaining energy and, for a brief moment, felt better. 

If he sat, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to collect enough strength to get up again. So he leaned on the counter, holding onto the familiar steadiness of it, and counted the minutes as they passed by, reflecting in the headlights of cars on the streets, measured in steps of strangers, drowning in the dark.


	5. Chapter 5

The water was everywhere. On the pavements and roads, running down the windows, pouring generously from roofs and numerous soppy hoods of jackets and coats, ending up in places where it was least expected. Alex closed up the shop, checked the locks twice, although, despite the shabby exterior design, Julie insisted on installing one of the best security systems to protect her family's legacy. Besides, no one with common sense would've robbed a bookstore. Unless they were really passionate about literature, of course.

He pulled the scarf up to his nose, opened an umbrella, borrowed shamelessly from their endless storage of forgotten things, and prepared both physically and mentally for a run to the bus stop. It wasn't too far away but, considering the profound change of weather to the worse in the past couple of hours, he might have as well had a boat.

His old sneakers weren't of good use, and, with water squishing in them, Alex felt the fever rising, creating an illusion of floating. On days like these he really missed California, despite his better judgement, and felt indescribable nostalgia when thinking about dry, sunny autumns out there. But even with no obvious reasons against coming back to States, Alex knew that it wouldn't end well. Too many memories, too many duties that he abandoned, too many goodbyes, unsaid.

He left with a heavy heart. There were countless explanations to give and he chose the shortest path through, cutting the relationships off all together. Leaving a letter, a note, a written excuse of any sort would've been a cheap move, so he decided not to say anything at all. Instead of facing his friends and colleagues, Alex packed his stuff and caught the plane to London. But when, much later, he made a few calls from his hometown, afraid of anger and disdain, he was met with confusion and surprise. Not only there was an ocean between his current and past life now, but a giant wall of misunderstanding, and the decision of leaving the band for good was finalized.

Ten minutes seemed like ten years, and that was merely waiting alongside a dozen and a half people who, just like him, wanted to get home. In the bus, squeezed between a woman with a small boy who constantly tried to poke Alex with his toy robot and a couple of tipsy teenagers in the middle of an early existential crisis, he held an umbrella in one hand and a bag with Agatha's book and newspapers in the other, blowing the fringe off his eyes and nose and trying not to suffocate.

The streets passed by in a blur, lit up by lightning bolts and neon signs, slowly sinking, unable to withstand the battle with yet another whim of nature. Alex was pale, with spots of bright red on his cheeks, sneezing and coughing, covering his mouth with a long dark blue scarf; a feverish ghost.

The noise in his head, monotonously muffled, reminded of all the hours that he spent on stage playing, singing, connecting to the crowd. He thought it was the best feeling in the whole world, being able to do that, to share his love for music with thousands of people. White noise, that's what it was. Surreal, boundless, primal, even; but, in comparison to that, Alex felt more alive in this bus, sweating, with trembling hands, holding onto that stupid bag. Yes, he was on top, he saw the ground right from the peak, and instead of falling, rolling down the steep hill, he calmly stepped down before it was too late and had no regrets whatsoever.

Pushing, exchanging apologies, getting caught up by the flow and spat out onto the street; the rain seemed to be finally calming down, and he was less than a hundred steps away from his flat. With a growling stomach, led and kept afloat by the basic instincts, Alex sighed, observing his feet move automatically, with no visible help from the brain. 

"Plan for the evening: shower, pills, food, keeping the food inside, TV, bed. Sleep?"


	6. Chapter 6

Warmth, entangled with goosebumps created a peculiar sensation that spread from his head to toes, through the pores on his skin straight to the veins, capillaries, aiming for the heart. He stood in the shower, constantly leaning forward, shaking, with both of his arms pressed against the glass, breathing in and out. 

When Alex came home, finally crossing the line between outside and inside, the flat met him with silence, pumping in his head, loud as drums. For the first few weeks, after the tour ended, he still heard the melodies at nights, and his fingers played them over and over. He used to catch himself writing a few decent lines repeatedly, turning yet another clean piece of paper into garbage, useless, wasted. The whiteness of it seemed so appealing at first, quickly turning into just another path towards self-destruction.

He took the sneakers, the coat and the scarf off, stared at the slippers for a brief moment, shook his head and went to the living room in wet socks, rubbing his arms and shivering. The rest of clothes were shortly put on the bed, and Alex, wearing nothing but underwear patterned with teddy bears, a little gift from the past, grabbed a towel and went to the bathroom. 

For how long was he going to stand there? Water, that only brought dizziness and nausea out on the street, now became his best friend, reaching into the deepest corners of his body. He watched it go all the way down the drain, hypnotized, brushed his hair back and made yet another attempt to focus for more than three seconds. Yes, sometimes Alex wished he wasn't alone. But, at the same time, with other people, he became more of themselves, got lost in his personalities and forgot about his own.

It was a good time to stop, probably. Anger, so much anger that was tearing him apart at first, didn't completely vanish, but he opened up to reasonability. Yes, the lack of inspiration almost drove him insane. Yes, it didn't go unnoticed. Yes, he couldn't see his life without music, writing, recording, touring. And yet, yes, he gave up. Why? Well, the world was full of great many things worth living for. Besides that, for the first time in years, he saw things so very clearly. And it was scary.

He used to be scared of failure, to worry about what people thought, to create an image that was more suitable for a rockstar. His descend had already begun, and reaching the destined low point was simply a matter of time. Unless Alex had the strength to get out of it, to keep the core of his identity intact.

He wrapped a towel around his hips and wiped the mirror, smiled with a corner of his mouth, reminded of certain lyrics that were fit for the occasion. He was there, amazedly looking back, but the smile felt more like a crooked grin. His pyjamas, on the third shelf to the left, smelt of peppermint and lavender. In dry clothes, with water dripping from his hair, Alex turned the TV on and went to the kitchen to take a few pills that promised a miraculous recovery.

On top of the pile of magazines brought by Agatha there was one that caught his attention. "Where Is Alex Turner? After four years of silence there's still no word from one of the most talented lyricists of his generation, and..." He laughed and put the kettle on. Whether they wanted to believe it or not, the person they were looking for had been dead for quite a while. And he didn't plan on being resurrected any time soon.


	7. Chapter 7

In the beginning there was a shy kid from Sheffield who thought that playing in a band with a few mates was cool. He wrote lyrics that became a resemblance of his everyday life, played simple but catchy melodies and figured that one year was worth skipping to try and make his dreams come true. He wasn't aiming for the worldwide fame, sold out venues and platinum records. Back then it simply looked like fun.

The boy grew up to be a famous man who still hadn't learned how to be interviewed properly and stuttered on tricky questions, with long pauses and incoherent mumbling. But there was an image to live up to. There were certain expectations, there were fans, waiting, and pressure, increasing with every album. And he got tired. And the teenager inside of him got very, very afraid. And it seemed as if failure, so forgiving in the past, was going to catch up with him sooner or later.

It was easy to take his new life for granted, a little bit too easy. Dissolving in praises and awards, he began to change, slowly, one microscopic part at a time, until something happened - and Alex couldn't write anymore. Not even a line that was remotely good. Not even a few chords that wouldn't have made him wince. A well, dried up to the bottom.

He sat on a couch, occasionally sipping from a cup and watching some talk show on ITV. The medication started to kick in, followed by a wave of warmth rising inside of his chest, pulsing in his temples. It was better to go to sleep; wiser, at least, but he didn't want to sweat out the fever in bed for a few more hours, stuck between wake and bizarre flu dreams. Wrapped in a cocoon of a couple of blankets, Alex lowered the sound to the minimum and opened the newspaper with his name on its cover.

2012\. End of the tour. No more gigs to play, no more exhaustion, stages, festivals, people, screaming for more. Quiet, rest, writing new material. Of course, there was always that invisible anticipation, craving something else, something different, better than before. Not so obvious at first, his lack of productivity turned into a problem by the end of the year, but no one had questioned it. If he needed to take a break, no one was going to fight him on it. But Alex already knew the truth, with hundreds and hundreds of discarded lyrics thrown away.

He wanted to smoke. The rain seemed to had stopped, but it was chilly outside, and he was wearing nothing but pyjamas. Calculating the risk of making his current condition worse was too complicated so Alex decided to make it as quick as possible, just a minute. He didn't want the flat to smell of nicotine, as well as his clothes and other belongings. Otherwise he was never going to quit.

2013\. Coming home. He left shortly before Christmas, packed his bags and disappeared without explanations, and that allowed him to celebrate the holidays with his family. He stayed there for a while, unable to move on, working on acceptance of the facts. Moving to London, finding the flat, meeting Julie... And everything remained the same since then. Well, almost everything.

Holding a cigarette with trembling fingers, jumping up and down to keep the blood running, quietly, because if he woke up the neighbours' dog there would've been quite a speech to listen to in the morning. The journalist made the craziest assumptions about Alex's fate, from being in rehab to lying in a coma after a tragic accident, and it sure did make him crack up despite feeling sick. And no one knew about the notebook under his bed, and it was funny to watch them guess, walking blindly in the dark.

In the middle of spring, 2015, during one of his sleepless nights Alex scribbled a song that sort of rhymed and wasn't particularly awful. A few hours later, awake and with a relatively clear head, he read it again, honestly expecting another piece of junk. But it wasn't.

Almost two years ago the writing block vanished almost as suddenly as it stroke.

Less than two months later he had enough material for three new albums.

But Alex Turner, the rockstar, rich and famous, did no longer exist. And Alex, the guy from the North, one and only employee of a small bookstore in London, took his place for good.

In the end, he wasn't aiming for worldwide success, sold out venues and platinum records. Loneliness, that some would see as penance, was just... a coincidence. Sleep issues? Mainly a product of watching too much TV, reading too many books and not getting quite enough fresh air. Not spending his money? He never knew what to do with it, even in the past.

Maybe in a while he was going to meet someone, fall in love, get married, but right now he enjoyed life as it was. The calm of it, the routine, the new-found integrity. 

And, in a way, he was even having fun.


End file.
